The Enemy Within

It was an exacting, step-by-step procedure, one as carefully planned as a satellite launch. It also hadn’t worked. No calls came in, no connections were made.

The two of them stood intently studying the operations center’s main control console. Banks of CRT screens offered them a visual representation of the telephone system’s cybernetic organism. They shook their heads simultaneously, utterly baffled. By rights, the machines should be fine.

“Taylor’s gonna be pissed,” was Kosinski’s only comment.

John F. Taylor was the president and CEO of Midwest Telephone. He was not an easy man to bring bad news to.

“It’s gotta be hardware, then,” Johnston insisted.

There were only two things that could go wrong with a computer. The complex set of instructions, the software, could be bad in any one of a hundred different ways. Alternatively, the hardware, made up of thousands of complex components, could fail. It had to be one or the other. There was no third alternative.

“We isolated and tested each of the CPUs, remember?” Kosinski was adamant. “The equipment is fine. Besides, what conceivable fault could create this kind of problem?”

Johnston spread his hands. “If it’s not the CPUs, then the problem has to be in the hookup somewhere in the system how they interact.”

“Could be.” Kosinski frowned. “Geez, that could be either a hardware or a software screw up… or some weird combination of both.” Part of her mind groaned at the thought. Debugging the intricate interactions of the machines and code as they communicated with each other would be a brain-burning exertion.

She shrugged. It was necessary. Then she brightened. If she was the one who brought the phone system back into operation, she would get the glory. Of course, she was also the one who would take the fall if the system stayed down.

Kosinski got to work.

2:00 P.M, EST CNN Headline News

“Our top story this hour is the continuing phone outage in the Midwest.

“Phone service in Minnesota, Wisconsin, Iowa, Illinois, Michigan, and Indiana remains at a complete standstill. While some attempts to place calls have been successful, Midwest Telephone spokesmen estimate that only one in a thousand or even one in ten thousand calls are being connected.

“The outage remains confined to the six-state region, but the rest of the nation’s telecommunications companies are reported to be closely monitoring the situation.

“In an exclusive radio interview with CNN, an assistant to John F. Taylor, Midwest Telephone’s CEO, hinted that the company suspects outside interference with its operations. Apparently, Midwest Telephone has requested emergency assistance from both the FBI and the Federal Communications Commission…”

2:15 P.M, EST Detroit

Randy Newcomb stood with the rest of the crowd watching the fire gutting old Mr. Romano’s house. The fire department was nowhere in sight.

He felt strangely detached. Neither the sight of the fire nor the old geezer’s loss meant anything to him.

Randy lived on the corner with an older brother and an alcoholic mother. Just eighteen, he’d been drifting in and out of high school for more than a year. He was a bright kid, and his brains had earned him leadership of the F Street posse. But they hadn’t been enough to keep him off crack.

The fire was just one more unimportant event in his drab existence. The only color was provided by small vials of crack. Getting the money for the next vial and the one after that occupied his entire being. Nothing else was worth much thought or worry.

Newcomb heard the neighbors talking about the phones being out, and complaining about not being able to call a Sre truck or an ambulance. That struck a sudden spark in his brain. If people couldn’t reach the fire or emergency services, they also couldn’t alert the police to any trouble, he slowly realized, smiling.

Drifting away from the crowd, he trotted back to his own house and grabbed the car keys. He had to collect a few of his friends. If they moved fast before the phones came back on, they could really score.

He turned the key, and the old Ford turned over. Reaching under the seat, he pulled out a 9mm automatic. He checked the magazine and patted the weapon affectionately. This was going to be fun. After all, the police couldn’t possibly be everywhere at once.

2:30 P.M, EST Detroit

Newcomb wasn’t alone.

Ninety minutes after the phones went dead, Officer Bob Calvin had the frustrating feeling of knowing there might be crimes going on all around him, but of being unable to do more than sweep up. He’d found out about the Napoli restaurant robbery only when someone flagged down his car and told him about the shooting.